


Open Hands

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Bonacieux is a creep, F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 11:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6655786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jacques Bonacieux is a man of frail spirit and a small heart—and yet he is drawn, like a moth to a flame, to passions far greater than he is capable of; to love far stronger than he can ever hope to give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this over a year ago; I don't know why it slipped my mind to cross-post.
> 
> Warnings: SPOILERS for the first series alone. It’s a crack!ship, but this fic is written in a serious tone. Bonacieux is a pretentious creep. A teensy bit of voyeurism. Emotional blackmailing and abuse.

**_Open Hands_ **

There’s a young man in Bonacieux’s home.

He knows it before he’s within five leagues of his house—a man, he hears, who fell at his wife’s feet; a criminal, a vagrant, a soldier, a spy, skulking through the marketplace like some wounded animal dragging itself home to die. A _handsome_ man though, a _young_ man, he hears, and his palms are sweating by the time he stalks through his doorway and calls for Constance, tearing his hat off his head.

And there she is, standing before a shirtless man, guiding him to a chair in front of the fire, and Bonacieux swallows and sweats some more.

“He’s injured,” she offers by way of explanation, and he sees the dark bruises stretching across the man’s ribcage, the way he shuffles obediently under her gentle touch, as though too exhausted to muster any voluntary movement.

“I see,” he says.

The man looks up at those words, as though realising for the first time that Bonacieux is here. He is young, almost painfully so—barely into adulthood, with the countenance of a lost puppy and a lean, slender body that seems like it would break like so much kindling upon touch. “Forgive me, Monsieur, for my intrusion,” he says. “I am d’Artagnan of Lup—” He grimaces as though he has tasted something bitter. “I am d’Artagnan,” he says again, “and I will leave shortly; I’ll not bother you any further—”

“Not without wrapping those ribs, you’re not,” Constance says firmly, finally depositing him in the chair and bustling about for a roll of linen.

d’Artagnan nods absently, and he hunches over his bruised ribs, his face turned to the fire. It is a beautiful face, Bonacieux thinks, when it is chiselled by the heavy hand of sorrow, as it is now; the tears in his eyes gleam in the firelight, and Bonacieux says, “d’Artagnan,” just to roll the name on his tongue, to savour both the harshness and the beauty of it.

d’Artagnan looks at him expectantly, and Bonacieux, who came here to find a murderer and instead finds a boy bent nearly in half by some inexplicable sorrow, feels buoyed by the strangest kind of merriment. “I am Jacques-Michel Bonacieux, at your service,” he says, “Merchant in high-quality cloths and linens to the nobility—perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

-

Constance’s vitality is like an open flame; Bonacieux is both drawn to and repelled by it. She is full of uncommon strength, and he hates her for it, sometimes, when he sits stiffly next to her on their bed and strokes her skin—softer, smoother, than the finest fabric—and she looks away, her fingers playing with errant piece of thread, and he feels so horribly, wretchedly inadequate. Sometimes she will clasp his hands in hers and press her lips to his softly, so softly, and tell him to rest, a hand on his brow until he closes his eyes. He thinks that hurts worse.

He can’t really complain, however—she is a dutiful, faithful wife to him, and the ready sparkle in her eye is so uplifting that he is both gratified and consumed by a terrible, growing fear that all of Paris is for her taking if she wishes it; that she will leave his dour company if he isn’t careful.

So when she asks him if d’Artagnan can take lodging in their home, Bonacieux is hard-pressed to refuse, even though the lodger is a farmboy with a dubious source of income with no recommendations apart from a trio of—admittedly intimidating—Musketeers.

“We can use the money,” he says, and both d’Artagnan and Constance smile so brilliantly that he thinks he might be blinded.

-

It’s a late winter night—Constance has long since gone to bed, and Bonacieux sits by the fire, nursing a glass of wine, studying his dwindling accounts. It’s been a terrible year for his business, and he’s had to travel far and often in search of clients and tradesmen. If only there is way to bolster income from—

The door crashes open and d’Artagnan pours in, bringing with him a sharp wind and a flurry of snow. The candles flicker dangerously. Bonacieux curses and slams the door closed, even as d’Artagnan slumps at his feet, curling into himself, shaking as though he might tear himself apart. Bonacieux catches the strong stench of stale wine, and his lips curl.

“Was probably a ghost,” d’Artagnan slurs, tilting his head back, and Bonacieux follows the long line of his throat to almost-blue lips.  He sighs, then hefts the young man to his feet and deposits him on a chair.

“This is hardly proper attire for the weather outside, d’Artagnan,” he says, eyeing his thin shirt and worn jacket and the absence of a hat or cloak or—even for appearance’s sake—a scarf. “Did you not bring anything else from your… farm? Surely the country experiences winter along with the rest of us?”

There’s a bitter smile on d’Artagnan’s face now, and it splits the softness of his face like a knifepoint. “Wasn’t planning on staying for long,” he says. He’s shaking harder now, rubbing his hands together in some desperate attempt at warmth. “Don’t have anything else.”

Bonacieux wraps an old blanket around his shoulders. He heats a bowl of water over the fire and pours a cupful for d’Artagnan; even waits until he’s got his numb, shaking fingers steady around the cup. “I can lend you my other winter cloak,” Bonacieux says finally. “At least until you get the money that you have written home for.”

d’Artagnan shakes his head. “That is kind of you, Monsieur,” he says, “but please do not pity me. I can manage.”

"I’ll increase next month’s rent if it’s important that you do not receive charity,” Bonacieux offers. His accounts are caught under d’Artagnan’s elbow, which is already smudging them with dirt and grease. He feels a sudden swoop of panic in the pit of his stomach, only to be distracted as d’Artagnan wraps his lips around the brim of the cup and downs the hot water like he might a celebratory glass of wine.

“No, Monsieur,” he says, rises unsteadily to his feet, and begins to shuffle towards his room. “I have seen fire and I have seen death and terrible vengeance, and they will keep me warm through this winter.”

Bonacieux closes his eyes and thinks of his cold bed.

-

Three months after d’Artagnan moves in, he finally hands over a pouch of money.

Bonacieux counts the coins, then blinks. “There’s only enough for one month here.”

“You’ll have to forgive me, Monsieur, but this is the first income I have received from my farm since coming to Paris. I have, of course, written home for more…”

Bonacieux sighs, irritated, and looks up. d’Artagnan’s lip is split and there’s a dark bruise stretching across his left temple, spilling down his forehead. There are circles of fatigue around his eyes and blood under his fingernails and yet even in apology he stands straight and proud, his hand resting on his pommel and his shoulders wide and strong. He remembers thinking that d’Artagnan looked like a twig, easily bent and breakable, and wonders where that lean, frightened little boy went—or if he existed at all.

“Very well,” he says. “At least something is better than nothing.”

d’Artagnan gives him a quick smile and turns away before he can return it.

-

Whatever joy that Bonacieux felt at receiving a commission from the Cardinal himself is wiped away at the sight of d’Artagnan and Constance kissing—in the middle of the street in broad daylight, no less!

He expects to feel betrayal, even rage—but what emerges instead is a slow-simmering anger, even _envy_. He wonders at the practised tenderness between them—at the way d’Artagnan seems to swallow her up and the way she falls in, giving herself with such abandon as she was never able to muster with Bonacieux. He wonders if d’Artagnan’s lips are wider, more pliant, if they mould beneath hers; if his hair is as soft as it looks and if she runs her fingers through the strands, if she grips and she pulls even as she surrenders herself to him.

Wonders at what else they might have done; if like an explosive and an open flame, this passion is just the beginning of something more—

Bonacieux swallows bile, shuddering, half-mad with pleasure and anger.

He orders her to break with him when he could’ve easily thrown her onto the streets; the thought of them kissing like that under his very nose when he has provided food, clothing and shelter and has not once asked for even a fraction of that passion rolls through him and settles in his chest, a deep, dull, bitter ache. He waits and listens, perversely proud that he has orchestrated this; that now both d’Artagnan and Constance stand before the fire, cut in half by sorrow.

d’Artagnan wipes his eyes as he leaves; Constance’s sobs echo through the house mere minutes later. Bonacieux opens a bottle of wine in his study, the sheer terror at nearly losing everything and still losing everything that mattered quaking through his hands.

-

When Constance disappears and the Musketeers refuse to help, Bonacieux _knows_.

Driven to the edge of madness by the thought of the both of them running away, lying ensconced in each others’ arms, whispering promises and burning, _burning_ brighter than the sun, he pays a carriage driver to hit him and injure him, a doctor to tend to him immediately afterward, and their housekeeper to carry the message that he’s tried to fall to his death to as many people as possible—maybe even to Constance herself.

Sure enough, Constance arrives, bruised and dishevelled and travel-weary, and sure enough, d’Artagnan follows her inside.

Their faces are twisted into identical masks of distress, and that ache in Bonacieux’s chest flares, sharp and white-hot.

“I love you so much,” he says, holding Constance’s hands in his, and the words aren’t as easy to say as he thought they would be. “Please don’t leave. This worthless life would be on your conscience.”

She looks at d’Artagnan, a quick, scared, almost wistful look, and Bonacieux feels a frisson of relief. d’Artagnan is lost to her now, but he is not removed from her— _their_ —orbit. Not yet.

“Don’t leave,” he tells her, touching his forehead to her hands, “don’t leave, please don’t leave me.”

 _Both of you, don’t leave me_.


End file.
